


Something Rotten (how does it feel when the world is closing in?)

by violent_ends



Series: Hypnos [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s04e08 Super Bad Boyfriend, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Whump, Lux (Lucifer TV), POV Lucifer, Public Sex, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22803733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violent_ends/pseuds/violent_ends
Summary: Theirs is a dance of death, one last tribute paid among the ashes of the inferno they brought on Earth along with them, but for a moment they’re back in the Garden, in a time that seems so much simpler in retrospect, and Eve is once again that wild, mysterious, unknown creature finding ecstasy in his lap, because ofhim;a being of desire and delight, of blissed moans and soft little giggles in the night, dark mane tangled and untamed like a lion's.And he is once again that curious angel who didn’t know better,shouldhave known better, willneverknow better.
Relationships: Eve/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Series: Hypnos [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623364
Comments: 22
Kudos: 55





	Something Rotten (how does it feel when the world is closing in?)

**Author's Note:**

> Spice prompt #10 public sex + #19 humiliation (not of a sexual nature!)

Eve disentangles herself from the gorgeous redhead she’s wrapped around and sends her on her way with one last peck, both women’s lips kiss-swollen and slightly parted when they separate, clearly craving more of each other. Lucifer is pretty sure he has kissed this one, too; a regular party girl who is clearly up for anything and who very obviously wishes they asked her to stay and make this a team effort, judging by the longing look she gives him before leaving the booth.

He sets the drinks he got on the way in on the table and slides in next to Eve, her body turning towards his immediately like a sunflower seeking a ray of light. He used to be that, once upon a time – light. But now, after Joan and Julian and so many others he hurt or allowed to hurt (and to _be_ hurt), he feels drained of it. He’s a black hole, sucking the good out of everything.

Eve still doesn’t see it, of course. Oblivious, she strokes her fingers down his chest as her other hand plays with the short hair at the nape of his neck, draping herself against his side.

“I've missed you," she purrs, shyly but with that hint of possessiveness that used to turn him on, to make him feel wanted, owned. Now that he can’t find the words to tell her they’re no good for each other, it seems to have backfired spectacularly.

“I’ve missed you too, sugar plum," he replies out of habit before he can catch himself in the lie, smiling but uncomfortably so. She doesn’t notice, or pretends she doesn’t – he’s never really sure.

She kisses him then, her tongue eager as it thrusts into his mouth, her body arching in a curve and still riding the wave of arousal left behind by the encounter he interrupted. Lucifer closes his eyes and goes with it, cupping her cheeks and letting her straddle him, growing instantly hard despite his insecurities once her hips start grinding into him.

Lux is in full swing around them, but the booth is secluded enough, tucked in the far corner of the room and providing them at least some privacy with its half-moon shape; and even if it wasn’t, everyone knows the owner is free to do what he wants down here – it wouldn’t be the first time he got carried away before dragging his future overnight guests to the elevator, already flushed and vibrating with desire.

Eve kisses and bites and sucks at his neck, once again trying to leave marks that simply won’t come into existence, her movements languid but increasingly insistent in a way that makes it impossible to misunderstand what they’re doing. Lucifer groans as he bares his throat to her, closing his eyes to give in to the sensation – Eve took a page out of his book and mostly wears no underwear, which means he can feel her warm and wet against his crotch.

“Why don’t we- why don’t we move this to the penthouse, darling?” he pants, suddenly self-conscious in a way he’s never been, but not because of the act itself; as stupid as it may seem, he feels put on the spot, somehow convinced that any onlooker will take one glance at him and call off his bluff, shaming him with the acknowledgement that he doesn’t really _want_ the woman rocking in his lap.

And he _should_ be ashamed, because it isn’t fair to her. And because pretending, much like bluffing, is just another form of lying.

“Why don’t you fuck me here instead?” Eve whispers in his ear, her voice already wrecked by lust. “Show everyone I’m yours, my little Devil.”

So far Lucifer’s stupid attempts at pushing her away have only made her bolder, more daring, eager to step up to the challenge and show him who's in charge, and his own failure leaves him fumbling for words.

“I'm-“ he croaks, panicking and aroused and utterly confused, “I'm not sure it’s-"

“Well, _someone_ here seems pretty sure to me," Eve cuts him off and grins seductively, sneaking one arm between her legs to cup him through his trousers. Lucifer chokes on a moan, because well, Big Ben is always up and running of course, the oblivious absolutely-not-little bastard.

_Why fight it?_, he tells himself, taking the easy way out instead of opening his mouth to say what he needs to say, like the bloody coward that he is. He will talk things out with her in the morning, yes, he can do that. It can’t hurt to make her happy one last time.

“You’re right, he is," he answers, offering her a cheeky smile that probably reaches his eyes. _Liar, liar, perfectly tailored suit on fire._

Eve’s eyes are shining with excitement in the semi-darkness of the club, her hands frantically unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers until she has enough space to free his erection. She lifts her dress to lower herself down on him, welcoming him inside in a smooth but too sudden motion that has them both groaning in awe and partly pain, their mouths slack against each other.

“Fuck,” Lucifer curses under his breath, his head thumping against the back of the booth, fingers squeezing convulsively around Eve’s clothed hipbones. In these moments he truly understands why some people say men only think with their nether bits, because bloody hell, it’s so good – why does he have to give this up, again? Oh, Devil wings, end-of-the-world prophecy and all that pesky business, right.

Eve rocks minutely on top of him, thrilled by the idea of being seen but maybe not bold enough to fully get into it, not yet at least. He doesn’t really guide her, mostly settling for holding on to her hips and watching her with hooded eyes, his mind clouded enough not to worry about what’s to come. She’s a beautiful little thing, so small compared to him, but a force of nature to be reckoned with when she has him pinned between her flexing thighs: she told him to show everyone she’s his, but it feels like the other way around.

Theirs is a dance of death, one last tribute paid among the ashes of the inferno they brought on Earth along with them, but for a moment they’re back in the Garden, in a time that seems so much simpler in retrospect, and Eve is once again that wild, mysterious, unknown creature finding ecstasy in his lap, because of _him_; a being of desire and delight, of blissed moans and soft little giggles in the night, dark mane tangled and untamed like a lion's.

And he is once again that curious angel who didn’t know better, _should_ have known better, will _never_ know better.

Meanwhile the world has changed around them, its lines cleaner but sharper; meanwhile, humanity has turned away from nature and bottled itself up in tighter, colder places like the one he now owns, worshipping stars made of flesh instead of light, dependant on artificial glimmers trapped inside spheres of glass and almost unable, more often than not, to see the ones he pinned to the sky.

And they have changed, too, twisted by a fall and an ascension, respectively – how foolish of him to think they could ignore it; how desperately, ridiculously naïve.

Over Eve's shoulder, Lucifer can see people have started to notice what they’re doing: some take a quick peek and look away in embarrassment, going back to their drinking or dancing; others are actively _watching_, mostly from other booths. He grows weirdly possessive when he meets a few men's gazes, wrapping one arm around Eve to pull her closer, while simultaneously deciding they might as well put on a good show.

“You have all eyes on you," he praises her, sitting up to mouth at her throat, Eve's breathless laugh reverberating through the skin under his lips.

She picks up a rhythm made of tiny but deep circles, Lucifer’s cock buried so deep he can feel every shift and pull of her walls around him, reducing the world and its complications to this and only this. He has the fabric of her dress balled up in his fist as he tries to hold himself back from flipping Eve on her back and fuck her into the seat or on top of the table, caution and doubts be damned, because it feels good and _they_ are good at this, if nothing else. He's not sure it really counts for something, but hell, they are.

Eve starts making a low, whiny sound in his ear that prompts him to press her down by her shoulder, helping her in her rolling, sinuous dance. Lucifer’s trousers are a bit in the way and the contact is probably not perfect for her, so he sneaks the other hand under her dress to rub his thumb against her clit. The lights of the club color her face as it scrunches up, probably the last time he will see her as she comes to the touch of his hand, but it can’t be helped.

“Luce, Luce, Luce, Luce," she chants, in the same way someone else would invoke Father, but she was the very first to learn, fairly quickly, that it’s better to avoid it as not to ruin his mood. “Oh, Luce, I love you so much.”

And there it is, the only thing probably worse than that. Lucifer’s hand flinches under her dress before he regains his composure, stroking her almost in a hurry until she is indeed coming, hard but wordlessly, spasming around him in a way that usually makes him follow right after. But not this time.

He feels a bitter taste in his throat, a constricting sensation that makes it hard to breathe. When Eve relaxes against him, he simply lifts her by the hips and guides her to sit next to him, trying to ignore her obviously confused face as he tries to tuck himself back in his trousers, still hard but with no interest to do anything about it.

Eve loves him, and he doesn’t. He loves- ugh, nevermind. What the hell is he _doing_?

“Hey, you haven’t finished," she says, stilling his trembling hand between his legs. “Let me.”

She winks at him, and the next thing he knows, she’s on her knees under the table, a different kind of heat around him but just as tight and warm and delicious if it wasn’t for the guilt twisting in his chest. Lucifer shuts his eyes and throws his head back, this time unwilling to acknowledge his audience, too ashamed to let them see it so plainly on his face. His nails are tearing holes in the leather cushion where he’s gripping it, intent on not giving in to the urge to bury his fingers in Eve's hair as she sucks him off.

_At least this way she can’t tell me she loves me_, he thinks, so disgusted with himself by it that actual tears sting at the corners of his eyes until he pushes them back by sheer force of will.

He can’t do this to her any longer. He can’t do this to himself any longer.

He comes more from the mechanics of it than from any real passion, quickly, silently.

In the morning, he doesn’t tell her it’s over.

He goes to work, comes back home, finds her waiting in his bed, has sex with her, and the process repeats itself until he just can’t allow it anymore.

But he’s never had to break up with someone before. In the garden, things just... fell apart. There was nothing to be said, really. She had to leave, and so she did. Besides, they weren’t what they are now, what they have been since she came back. What they have desperately _tried_ to be.

He’s not sure that doing this in bed is a good idea, but she’s lying there already, wearing a black silky nightgown that ends right under the curve of her arse, the fabric dipping in the front to show her cleavage. He’s been putting her through hell lately, neglecting her, mistreating her, sometimes snapping at her, yet she’s still here, waiting for him as she twirls a strand of her hair around one finger.

She deserves better than this, and at the same time, she is the maker of his ruin, at least in part. Despite what most people think, he has grown enough to take responsibility for what he has done, and she certainly wasn’t the one who broke a man’s back like a breadstick. Still, she was there and she _smiled_ at him, told him who he's supposed to be, and if the prophecy says it’s her presence triggering all this, then it must be true, right?

He takes off his shoes and sits on the bed with his back against the headboard, then takes a deep breath.

“Eve, we need to talk.”

The worry on her face is unmistakable, even as she tries to hide it, schooling her features into a mask of nonchalance. They are like actors in a play at this point, pretending to be okay with each other, when most probably she’s just as frustrated with him as he is with the whole situation. He never wanted to play a part in any play, not even one of his own making.

“We can talk in the morning,” Eve cooes, sliding closer to him. This time, when her fingers trail up his clothed thigh, Lucifer is sure that she knows what she’s doing, that all of this is an intended distraction, and it infuriates him.

“Stop," he snaps, catching her wrist lightning-quick just as her hand is about to reach its destination. He releases it and stands up from the bed, pacing nervously, raking a hand through his hair. Eve sits up on the mattress and watches him, a storm gathering in her big eyes, he can tell. They rarely ever fought, but when it happens, she can be deadly with her words.

“It’s Chloe, isn’t it?” she asks – the name itself makes him flinch, but he forces himself to keep pacing. “We stopped punishing people because she lectured you, or something, and now you are acting all cold and distant. Why do you let her influence you this much?”

“This isn’t about her,” he mutters, his heart picking up speed in his chest.

“Then what is it about?” Eve inquires, standing up from the bed. She walks around it and corners him near the wall, her arms crossed over her front.

_It’s about the wings, the bloody, ugly, monstrous wings currently attached to my back because apparently evil shall be released and that evil is me or you or both._

But he has tried to explain it to her, and the wings- he can’t show them to anyone else, he _can’t_.

“I just- I think I need to change and... I'm not sure I can, with you.”

Eve scoffs. “Why would you want to change in the first place? Why can’t you just stop _listening_ to whoever tells you you should?” She steps even closer, her features so angry that Lucifer takes a step back on instinct despite how tiny she is. Eve grabs his chin and forces him to look down at her, positively furious.

“You’re the Devil. _Be_ the Devil.”

He doesn’t know what makes him lose control: the assumption that she knows who he is with absolute certainty, or the fact that she’s probably right and it’s stupid of him to think he could be anything different. Either way, it’s too much. He spins her around and pins her against the wall, holding her arms in place against her chest.

“Is this what you want from me?” he croaks in her ear, hoping she’ll say no, hoping she’ll shove him backwards, but she doesn’t. “Is this- is this how you want me to be? Harsh? _Cruel_?”

Eve twists her neck back to look at him, spiteful, defiant – when did she become so viscious? When did _he_? What have they reduced each other to?

“When you have to be. When you _want_ to be," she answers, grinning. “And you _can_ be, with me.”

She disentangles her arms from his grasp only to pull him closer, one hand in his hair and the other cupping his arse through the fabric of his trousers.

“Stop holding yourself back, Lucifer. It doesn’t suit you.”

She kisses him then, and he lets her, because he's tired of hearing this, of fighting this. Eve bites at his lower lip, her grip in his hair tightening, and it doesn’t sting, _cannot_ sting, but he still pulls back from it to yank her head to the side and suck a bruise where her neck meets her shoulder, pushing one strap of her nightgown off to bite into more of her skin.

He pulls her back by her hips, flush against him, and quickly gathers up the black fabric in his hands to grind against her, to _show_ her, and it’s fast and rough and absolutely _not_ about pleasure, distinctly not like him at all, with his hand in Eve's hair and no tenderness in his grip around her hips. He’s not even aroused, he doesn’t even _want_ this, but she does – she wants the tempter, the punisher, and is this all that he is? Is this all he can aspire to be?

“There he is,” Eve chuckles, baring more of her neck to his mouth; it’s so obvious that she’s been talking with Maze about the way he's been acting, so much that even the demon’s own words have found their way out through her lips. _And there he goes_, echoes Maze’s voice, followed by his own.

_You will not speak to me this way._

It enrages him so much that he sees red, literally in his case, which means he has to stop immediately. He wrenches himself away with a growl and storms off to lock himself in the bathroom, leaving Eve panting against the wall.

In the mirror, red eyes keep staring back at him until he regains enough control to will the fire away. Even after that, he can’t tear his gaze off his reflection, disgusted, ashamed, angry at himself, at both of them. It’s unclear at this point who has corrupted whom, but what is certain is that something rotten was born from it. The fun has ended, and they’re left worse than when they found each other: perhaps the forbidden fruit was such not because it was the sweetest, but because it was the most venomous of all.

The edge of the sink cracks under his grip, but doesn’t break. A small mercy, he supposes.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Eve is sitting on the edge of the bed with a blank expression on her face. There are tears in her eyes when she turns toward him, and he feels sick.

“I'm sorry," he chokes, taking one step closer, but thinking better of it at the last moment. “That wasn’t right. Forgive me.”

He circles the bed to walk away, but Eve's arm shoots forward to grab his wrist before he can make it to the stairs.

“I wanted you to," she whispers, looking up at him. Then she tugs at his hand and scoots back, until they’re lying down together. Lucifer feels too guilty to deny her this, if it’s what she wants.

Eve tucks herself against him so he can spoon her and guides his arms to wrap around her body. He'll have to sleep dressed, but it’s not the end of the world. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her hair, probably the only thing that stayed the same between them since the Garden, a small comfort in the midst of so many things gone wrong.

It’s fine. He can tell her in the morning.

Surely, Eve will understand.

**Author's Note:**

> And that’s a (very sad) wrap on my Eveningstar series! Stay tuned for the Deckerstar smut instead ;) thanks for reading and commenting!


End file.
